The Perfect Victim
by Quiet Solitude
Summary: Running low on drugs, Cassidy seeks relief in a run-down Annville bar.


"Give me another, man! What do you think, I can't hold me own liquor?"

Cassidy slammed the shot glass onto the grimy bar, sticky with stale beer from drunken nights past. The bartender—a bearded middle-aged man with eyes that never lit up anymore and a belt buckle of the confederate flag the size of his fist—turned to grab a dusty bottle of whiskey from the shelf and filled his customer's glass once more. "As a matter o' fact, mate, why don't you just leave the bottle?" The bartender moved away to wipe a few glasses; the bottle stayed.

Cassidy downed the shot and grabbed the bottle, swilling it thirstily. He had come out tonight to hunt; somehow, though, he'd ended up in this shack of a bar trying to replace his thirst for blood with a bellyful of burning whiskey. It was true what he had told Tulip; he didn't crave human blood…often. And when he did, he could usually drink himself into forgetfulness or find some…other…substances to pump through his body that would mimic the high he felt when he fed. Years of experimentation told him that opioids worked best, preferably something that involved a needle. But here, in a town that sold shitty weed and weak heroin, in a town where he had made next-to-no money, Cassidy found himself wandering the streets more and more often to find something, _anything_ , that would take his mind off the growing knot in his stomach. It had been _so long_ since he had fed—weeks—and, frankly, he was starving.

Usually he'd simply wander through the alleyways of whatever city he was staying in and pick off one of the nobodies, the faceless pieces of flesh just waiting for death. Their blood made bitter by years of self-medication, these meals slaked the gnawing hunger in his stomach but never _truly_ satisfied. Once more, though, Annville restrained him. In such a small place, even the death of a homeless street rat would raise suspicion.

Cassidy tipped the bottle back once more, feeling the bite of the liquor on his throat. He tried to focus on the warming sensation it sent throughout his body, tried to think himself into satisfaction, tried to block out his hunger, tried to drive away thoughts about…

The perfect victim. Usually female—but not required, especially during the 60's when he lived in London—they tended to be in their twenties and rebellious. Life hadn't soured them; they still held onto the belief of a bright future. They still believed they had something to fight for, believed the world actually had a moral center buried beneath the stink. In a physical sense, they needed to be healthy and at least mildly fit, but Cassidy preferred the ones that could also swig down a little hard liquor. Gave em a bit of flavor. He hated doing it—hell, they were the only ones actually _awake,_ they were the ones who had _nerve_ —but _god,_ it felt good to let go, to let the monster inside him take over, to give in to that overwhelming temptation even just for a few minutes. To _truly_ be a perfect victim, to _truly_ staunch the craving that had grown and grown like a beast inside him, it was a necessity to please other…urges…he had as well, urges that had nothing to do with his palate. Ahhh, it had been so long since—

"You want anything else?"

A gravelly voice jolted Cassidy out of his thoughts, catapulting him from the crowded streets of New York City to the beer-stained bar in this Texas asscrack of a town. Hoping the dim light from the _Budweiser_ sign would help hide his sudden boner, the Irishman downed the last mouthful of whiskey and shook his head at the bartender. "Nothin' except a bloody beauty of an arse sitting right here on me lap, with a nice set of knockers and a knack for poor decisions." He chuckled, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand and weighing his options. His aching insides still overpowered the burn of the whiskey; if he needed, the last of his good China White was stashed in the glove compartment of Jesse's church van. That was for emergencies, though, or nights when he _really_ wanted to get fucked up. "Oy! Actually, d'ye mind if I have a smoke?"

The bartender glanced up from his glass, scanning the empty booths and deserted pool table. Then, reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds, he lit one and stuck it between his lips. "Go right ahead; won't bother me none."

Cassidy nodded his thanks and lit one of the Camels he'd snatched from Jesse's truck. He sighed, taking a long drag from the cigarette, and eyed the barman up and down. "If you don't mind me asking, mate, what's keepin' you here? Can't be the booming business or the fucking scenery. What is it, eh?"

The barman tapped his ashes into Cassidy's empty whiskey bottle and continued shining his glass.

"Alright, fine. No sense talkin' to a bloody stranger, I suppose." His insides rolled once more; it had been _so long_ …

They both smoked in silence for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, "Safe here, ya know?"

Cassidy glanced up at the bartender, who had finally put down his glass to look—perhaps for the first time in ages—his customer in the eye. "Safe here," he repeated. "Yeah, I know the town's nuts. I know the QM&P guys stick their dicks in anything that walks. I know the sheriff's wife can't wipe her own ass. I know about that sick-ass bus driver. I know about the affairs, the lies, the kids who beat up the other kids. I know about the hypocrisy. I know the people are just tryin' to cheat their way into heaven by goin' to church on Sundays. But I also know what I get when someone walks through those doors. And they know me, and know that I know, and will try their damndest to save face and keep their dirty little secrets. Nothing more serious that a bar fight or two 'round here; this place is crazy, but it's our own crazy. We don't get the _real_ monsters; no, Annville's too small for em to find."

He finished with a flourish of his rag, wiping at a dark stain on the bar. Cassidy looked down and smiled, taking one last drag from his cigarette. "Well, you've thought it out, that's for sure. What's your name, anyhow?"

"Paul," the barman answered, extending a hand hardened by years of working outdoors, more than likely putting up fencing or swinging a hammer.

"Nice to meet you, Paul," the vampire replied, dropping his cigarette butt into the bottle and watching the smoke billow out as he shook the outstretched hand. "But I hate to tell ya, mate," he squeezed the hand tighter as his insides squirmed with eagerness and hunger, "Those monsters you're afraid of finally found Annville."

The split second of confusion on the bartender's face turned to terror as Cassidy lunged across the table, knocking down his stool and sending the bottle flying. A loud _CRACK!_ echoed in the empty bar as Paul's arm snapped; in another swift movement, the Irishman had one hand clamped onto his victim's shoulder and the other on Paul's forehead, pushing his head back and exposing his neck. Cassidy could see the jugular pulsing, could _feel_ the rich blood coursing through those veins…and bit down. Hard.

Blood flowed between his teeth, dripping onto the floor and spraying onto the bottles behind them. He could feel it streaming down his throat to settle in his gullet; warm, savory, rich! Cassidy couldn't suppress a moan as he fed, Paul's good arm trying in vain to scratch at the vampire's back, his attempts growing weaker every second.

As the victim faded, Cassidy folded his body around the man, easing him to the floor in an almost automatic response. Still he drank, that dark monster in him begging for more… _more_ … _MORE!_ It craved _more_ of the sweet, _more_ of the innocent, _more_ of the live, pumping blood that walked the streets of this town. He craved _more_ than this man. Stronger than this man. As he fed, the face of whom he craved swarmed before his eyes, and Cassidy vowed to get so shit-faced drunk or high after this that the beast inside him wouldn't act on those desires.

After a few more minutes, his victim's blood stopped flowing, stopped pumping itself into Cassidy's mouth. He lapped the remainder off the floor like a dog, trying to savor every last drop. His heart rate slowly fell from the adrenaline-driven feed, and after the Irishman licked up all he could, he rolled onto his back and rested his head on the body. "Sorry mate," he sighed, closing his eyes with fatigue. "But what kind of a pansy-arse name is Paul, anyway?"

Cassidy lay there a few minutes, contemplating the craving that still lingered. His hunger had been satisfied, but the rest…? The man he had just drained tasted bland, to say the least.

Suddenly a sharp _ting-a-ling-ding!_ of the bell on the door sounded throughout the bar, followed by someone's footsteps. "Cassidy, you in here? Cassidy?"

The vampire's insides squirmed at the noise; as if on cue, his heart rate skyrocketed and muscles tightened, ready to pounce. _This_ was the blood he wanted; _this_ was the blood he craved. _This_ was the perfect victim. And something had to be done before he completely lost control.

Thinking fast, Cassidy's bloodstained hand grabbed the nearest bottle of liquor and he tipped it back, downing it in one. A numbness immediately began to settle over his body; this should hold him until he got to that last bit of China White.

He let the bottle drop just as she rounded the corner of the bar. Her eyes widened in shock as she saw him, drunk and full and covered in the blood of his victim. "What the fuuuuu…" she gasped; the forgotten bottle rolled past her feet.

Cassidy grinned half-heartedly, waving a crimson hand. "Oh hi, Tulip. By the way, do you know any place nearby to hide a body?"


End file.
